| |
|
He halted in
the wind, and--what was that
Far in the maples, pale,
but not a ghost?
He stood there bringing March
against his thought,
And yet too ready to believe the
most.
'Oh, that's the Paradise-in-bloom,' I said;
And truly it was fair enough for flowers
had we but
in us to assume in march
Such white luxuriance of May
for ours.
We stood a moment so in a strange
world,
Myself as one his own pretense deceives;
And then I said the truth (and we moved on).
A young
beech clinging to its last year's leaves.
|
|
|
